Bionic Bob leaves us

 Doctor Frank gets lots of letters. Emails really, but that’s how it works now. And how it works now too, apparently, is that our friends pass on. We look at each other like Stormin said a couple years ago and we say OK don’t anyone die between now and next time — could you imagine saying that, even just a few years ago? — and then JBT dies. And now Crawdad. 

So Doc got this from Walker. Walker volunteered to write a few words meant to be a tiny piece of Bionic Bob’s obituary. And Walker couldn’t stop, he just kept going until he had this giant opus. And Walker can’t let go, because it’s all true, the Green Lake part, the nickname part, the skateboard part, even the love part, and Walker wants to know what to cut. Because it’s sposed to be tiny. Here it is:

——————

There was this guy who pulled a mean oar at Seattle’s Green Lake Crew, back in high school, early 70s. Somehow his face is clearer than the others in my memory, no bushy mustache then, just lean fire and intensity. The rest of us — North Seattle boys, all of us, living just minutes from the boathouse — wondered why the hell this Crawford kid would commute all the way from Mercer Island, an hour away, just to work himself near to death in a boat, slog home in the dark for dinner and whatever Mercer Island kids did at night, come back for more the next day… and the next… and…

…and pretty soon nobody cared about the why. Bob Crawford was a hell of a teammate. The kind of guy everyone wanted in their boat. A guy who gave everything he had, every stroke, for the team. For his teammates. 

It took me almost fifty years to get why he did it. It was love. But we’ll come back to that. 

By the time I moved in at the UW’s Conibear Shellhouse as a freshman two years later, Crawdad was a Husky sophomore. By then that giant dark shrubbery grew thick and unruly on his lip. And a new nickname sprouted along with it. Badass Bob. 

Sophomores, aka Rookies, at that time were bound by rule to make life hell on the frosh Grunties. Badass did his best to comply. But every guy he helped toss in the lake, every new victim of some harsh ritual, even Bob’s poor beat-down Gruntie roommate Kevin, saw the twinkle in his eye, and a hint of a kind smile he could never keep hidden under that mad swatch of fur.

Bob’s greatest contribution to crewhouse lore was the sport of indoor competitive skateboarding, judged for points along the linoleum tiled corridor of Grunt Row, where a few dozen freshmen lived under supervision from respected Rookies like Bob. As the only guy with the cojones to take part, Bob got the victory every time… until that day… a poorly timed leap took his head full speed into the metal door jamb at the end of the hall. Panicked Grunties surrounded their wounded hero, lying in a pool of blood, and managed to get him to the hospital. When he returned, patched up, stitched up, and made better than he was before, thanks to medical technology, yet another nickname arose.

Bionic Badass Bob Crawdaddy Crawford, like most of us anonymous Huskies, never made a top boat, never got gold medals or championships or a purple jacket from the Husky Hall of Fame. But those that earned the awards and recognition know without a doubt they wouldn’t have made it if they weren’t pushed to their limits by Bob Crawford and the handful of guys like him who never let them rest.

I was lucky enough to pull an oar with Bob in the last race of his Husky career. It was Opening Day in the Montlake Cut and we 3rd-boaters were supposed to lose the featured JV event to the actual Husky JV boat. With Carolynn Patten in the cox seat, the first-ever woman to cox the men’s team at UW, we led that race for 1500+ meters before the other Huskies took the lead and the win. Sad? You bet. But back at the boathouse we huddled up and heard Bionic Bob tell us, with wonder and gratitude in his voice, it was the best race, best boat, best crew, from start to finish, that he’d ever been a part of, and he was just damn proud to be a part of what happened that day. Everyone looked at him and nodded. Bob had put into words exactly what we were all thinking. 

Back to that love thing. A few years ago I got on stage with my son Joe, a guitar instructor, for a rendition of Free Bird at a jam for his students. During rehearsal one day I told Joe there was this guy, years ago in college, who hollered “Free Bird!” at every band, every DJ, every guy who dropped a quarter in a jukebox, even at Roy the square dance caller. I said it was mid 70s, just a couple years after Skynyrd released the song. Joe, always the best at a deadpan reply, says “Oh my gosh… maybe he was the first guy…”

So no kidding, there I was in front of this crowd before we played, saying “In the house tonight, ladies and gentlemen, the first man to ever yell ‘Free Bird!’ at a show, Badass Bob Crawford!”

After the song, as I thanked Bob and Vicki for taking a huge part of a fall Saturday to drive to Seattle, find parking, sit and listen to a hack musician who called him up on a lark after not seeing him for years… I mean, who does that?… that’s when it hit me.

He did it for love. Bob drove to Green Lake every day out of love for his brothers. He gave everything he had, even in a losing cause, even when there was no glory in it for him, because he loved his teammates. And he came to that show because a brother called with a favor to ask. And Bob, who loved his brothers, wouldn’t let a brother down. 

——————————-

 

Sorry Walker. Doc’s got nothing for ya. You better just leave it all there.

Our Most Beautiful Sport

 

Arshay Cooper writes what’s real. And it’s A Most Beautiful Thing.

He writes turmoil and peace and conflict and redemption and death and survival and escape. Funny thing is though, Cooper’s story of Manley High Crew in the 1990s barely touches the uncomfortable stuff. But it’s uncomfortable anyway.

Get it, read it, do it now. Then watch the movie.
www.amostbeautifulthing.com

Want some privilege? Or at least, wanna see it? Maybe privilege is just comfort: a shelter from what’s real.

The Big C: Courage

So Doc gets this email from Benson, forwarded by a friend because Benson lost track of Doc’s address. Doc thinks, of course he lost track, hell, Benson’s that nutty geology professor, just enough space in his head for igneous, metamorphic, sedentary… sentimentary... 

Putter, Mushet, Timmins, Richey, Benson, DuFresne, Florer, Stebbins, KoolRay. Spring 1977.
Photo: Roger Daniels

Then Doc reads the email.  

And, well… damn. Doc’s gonna shut up for a minute and just let Benson say it. 

 Dear Dr. Emfbo,

 I know you aren’t that kind of doc, but one of my oncologists swears she knows you from her fellowship at UW School of Medicine. She remembered that you spoke in a focus group about how rowing gave you the drive, grit and persistence to continue through tough times.

 That was two years ago. I was in a hospital bed, and rather than watch a red poison go through a port in my chest, I flipped on the TV and blundered right into live broadcasts of the IRAs. UW was dominant of course, however the 500m/1000m/1500m/2000m splits became very real in the moment.

 Anyone of us, who’s sat on a sliding seat or froze in the chase boat, knows the depth of pulling when you think you can’t pull any more, living that elegant Pocock quote of digging deep into reserves you didn’t know you had. It doesn’t matter whether you were like Hess, Clapp, Felix, or some lardbutt like me, you know the pain and how to keep going.

 Yeah, those were the good old days certainly, but the lessons learned on the water aren’t forgotten. Now it seems like a gray and foggy stretch of smooth water is whispering by under the hull, lined by a rocky shore topped with cedars and hemlocks. The adrenaline crush and agony of 2000m is done, but there is no stop. The sculls somehow keep working, and an invisible opponent seems to be behind, then ahead, then behind again. But this opponent perversely takes chunks of leg. But somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. The opponent still dances, unfazed, chased by more chemicals. But again somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. The opponent yet still dances, unfazed, attacking lungs. Still again, somehow, those old skills keep you going, no stop. Maybe that wretched opponent will appear briefly before being rowed into oblivion and the sun will sparkle on the water. Then again, a quiet “way ‘nuff” may come out of the fog, a gentle tug on the oar will pull alongside the dock, and Coach Dik, Skip, Blake, and Mary will be standing there.

 This isn’t a pity party. All that time on the water does pay off. Thank you Dr. Emfbo. I heard a rumor that you have a new resident, Dr. Mtbgf. I hope you continue to inspire thousands more beyond those of us who are lucky to have known you.

 Rob Benson

In a followup, Benson sends a picture. Tabor Academy, Henley 1976. Benson at 7. Future Husky Legend Charlie Clapp in the bow. High school kids. Benson says “…one of those fleeting peak moments. …We were 3 lengths up.  We got eliminated the next day by an even bigger crew.”

Tabor, Princess Elizabeth Cup, Henley Royal Regatta, 1976
Photo courtesy of Rob Benson

And Benson, whose life has seen plenty of peak moments but who still looks back to age 18 to find the one that matters, goes on to say “…FUCK CANCER.”

We all suffer, we all die. We get closer every day, regardless of what finally brings us to the end. But it punches you in the gut when you hit around sixty and suddenly you look at your friends and wonder when suffering and dying got normal. It’s a damn equalizer. Cancer doesn’t care who you were, what you won, whether you were “…Hess, Clapp, Felix, or some lardbutt like me….” Cancer disregards your purple jacket, your Olympic medal, your Super Bowl ring.

Benson hopes for sun sparkling on the water. Doc is reminded that Peckerhead Stillings shot a photo at Henley during the Boys of 77 Reunion Tour. It’s calm water just beyond the finish line, no boats, no people, just a glimmer of English sunlight as the afternoon fades. Stillings said, even if you win, the moment still fades into memory. You start, you race, you finish, you think it’ll happen again. You think that glory will be back another day. But to paraphrase Moonlight Graham, that was the only day. 

 "Back then I thought... there'll be other days..."
Photo: John Stillings

The race itself is the equalizer. We all hit the finish line in the same condition. It hurts like hell to see a brother in pain, but guys like Benson inspire us when they face it, not with a voice of despair, but with words from George Pocock about a vast and mysterious reserve of power, one we never knew we had.

Pocock was talking about Courage. Courage we find somewhere deep within, Courage that appears out of instinct, out of confidence that if we just pull harder, we got this race. Courage with a Capital C. The Big C. Benson’s got Courage, and it’s an inspiration, no matter when that finish line comes for any of us. 

Many thanks to Rob Benson, Husky Crew Class of 1980, for the honesty and Courage. You can contact him with words of friendship and support at rgbenson@adams.edu .

UPDATE, Sunday, September 20: Got the following sad news today from Charlie Clapp '81:

"It is with profound sadness that I pass along the news that Rob passed away this morning, peacefully and at home.  He had a reasonably good day yesterday, went to sleep last night and never awoke. A lifelong friend and crewmate since high school - we lost a good man.  Everyone Be well and Stay well.  Charlie/Chas" 

 

• Rob’s boat-dock vision sees Coach Dik Erickson, and teammates Skip Miller, Blake Nordstrom, and Mary Stoertz. All gone but waiting for us beyond the finish line.
• “Dr. Mtbgf” may well be Maketheboatgofaster. But apparently Benson knows more than Doc about these things.

Turns Out, Yes You Can Go Back

The Boys of '77 find the memories still linger.
Part 2 of 2. See Part One here.

Fisk, Stillings, Jesse, Mort, Stormin:

The grail at hand, once again.

Bing.

A text message lights a screen in Seattle.

"Hey Teasdale, it’s Magee. I'm in the pooper at Vancouver airport. Just ran into Walker. He sees me, cracks up. Just laughing and pointing. I mean I haven’t seen the guy for two years and he starts in on my outfit. Flip-flops, sweats, a week's growth on my face, baggy tee on an international flight, so what? Fuck him. You should see the plaid monkey suit he's got on. He's not gonna be laughing when he can't sleep on that flight. And I guarantee you, his ballsack in those pants... A ten hour flight, man. Ten hours..."

The things that matter when you turn 60. 'Cause, y'know, stuff's g

Like a Stranger in a Crowd...

June, 2017

Somebody had to put it together. This reunion thing. Someone had to do it. It’s been forty years.

 The scene of the crime.

They shine in our memories, those nine boys, up there on a podium drenched in the late afternoon brilliance of an English countryside in 1977. They’re up there, breaking musty British propriety in their Husky racing shirts because there just was no time for stuffy coats and ties, all grins with their trophy, surprise and joy and triumph and exhaustion etched in their smiles. In those old photos we can even feel the power in their grips as they shake hands with the officials, the officials who can’t believe these young American bucks crossed an ocean to take victory in a race they weren’t expected to win.

Jackman, Sawyer, Parker, Miller, Umlauf, Fisk, Franklin, Hess. Stillings at cox.

Well rowed, gents. Next time bring a coat and tie.

These boys came from nowhere -- "we weren't really that good," Mort said -- to take the Henley Grand Challenge in 1977. It was a Grand Theft really, stealing the hardware from a heavily favored Leander Club to write their names in Husky history. 

What the hell, Minnesota?

Doc's readers have praised this site's entertainment value. This post provides none.

Doc is just baffled. Where the fuck have we come from, if this is called progress? Was it so goddamn bad in the past? Was it that goddamn bad, that this world of entitled rapists and abusers and fuck-you douchebags can just run rampant and we think this is a better fucking world? How can we even begin to think we're better than we were? 

I'll come back to that. First some news. 

Minnesota Golden Gophers. Fuck sake fellas, come up with a new name. Now you're the Minnesota Turtleheads. Why not? Your football coach has one pokin' out. I'll get back to that too.

How Rowing Hosed my Life

"You know I'd take a bullet for you, Emfbo. You know that, right?"

That was LoBear, the Big Man, a few months ago. I'd never thought about it that way, but of course it was true. Of course I knew it. And of course it was mutual.

Who wouldn’t take a bullet for this Big Man?

Doctor Frank has put some time into thinking about that ever since. The same question keeps wrapping itself around Doc's brain and it won't let go. Where did this guy come from?

Breaking News... Live from the Senate

Yeah. Garland is out, this guy is in. God Bless America. 

Washington, DC (Emfbo Press) -- President Barack Obama has withdrawn his nomination of Merrick Garland in favor of dark horse candidate Mark Roe, Prosecuting Attorney of Snohomish County, WA. The president announced today that he chose to take the advice of blogger and political pundit Doctor Frank Emfbo, author of the instant classic Boys in the Boathouse, a rollicking, nonsensical tale that was, of course, not true. None of it happened, insists Doctor Emfbo, which is why it's called a novel.

But we digress. Obama's terse statement revealed his decision.

"I made a mistake, all right? Garland is out. New guy is a former Husky oarsman, still listens to Devo, plays hoops with attorneys on Fridays. He's 56 and still has knees. What's not to like?"

Dear Mister President...

Hold up a second there, Mister President. 

Doctor Frank and his buddies Al and Raoul have drafted an open letter to President Obama. They have the perfect candidate for Supreme Court, loved by all except the bad guys. You don't get 70% of the vote without support from both sides of the aisle. Just check out that brilliant smile, and the huge brain in that huge head. Read on...

Story of the Year

 

That’s some story, for sure. Unprecedented five in a row. Unprecedented nine team trophies in a row. Unprecedented sweep of all five events.

They have pictures on facebook, Husky rowers hanging out with Michael Bennett. Holy Cow.

And Doctor Frank couldn’t be prouder. But damn, I couldn’t help just looking back.

What About Ernie?

The man could pull his weight.

Doctor Frank is pissed. And embarrassed too. You see, a Husky legend, Bob Ernst, was fired for doing his job. And that Husky legend happened to be the guy who was Doctor Frank's gruntie coach back in 1976 when Ernie was in just his second year coaching at Washington.

The Boys in the Boathouse

The Boys in the Boathouse

A Novel -- really, none of this ever happened -- by Dr. Frank Emfbo

Link to the whole book right here. 

Reviews

Advance praise for
The Boys in the Boathouse

“I laughed, I cried, I soiled myself... Can’t wait for the movie!”          

- Devo

Epilogue - The Day We All Died

The Boys in the Boathouse

A Novel -- really, none of this ever happened -- by Dr. Frank Emfbo

Epilogue

The Day We All Died.

You won’t see Doctor Frank getting all weepy over this. It’s not his way. He won’t recreate “Bye Bye, It’s Dik Erickson’s Pie,” filling new lyrics with old jokes that only Dog Rowers would understand. Someone else can do that shit. Doctor Frank is not a poet.

But Doctor Frank is not alone when he says that something crushed me deep inside, the day Dik died.

Chapter 17 - Knarr or Duchess?

The Boys in the Boathouse

A Novel -- really, none of this ever happened -- by Dr. Frank Emfbo

Chapter Seventeen
Knarr or Duchess?

Beef or chicken? Pork or fish? On a scale of food from drinking your own piss to filet mignon, the Knarr was a can of generic chili. The Duchess was Dinty Moore beef stew.

The rest of the college crowd favored O’Banion’s. Dante’s. Rapunzel’s. The intellectual elite hung at the Blue Moon. But we wanted our own place, where nobody would know us. Where we could just be ourselves.

The Knarr would let anyone in, at least when Marcia was working. Tulla had his Dibby back home, the one he’d marry a month after graduation. But for now he’d flirt with Marcia just enough to get her to let us all in. What could possibly go wrong? It was just a couple dozen underage crew guys plus their dates hanging out in a dive bar where the other customers just kept to themselves and let us go nuts.

It was a shit hole. Still, it was a club, but not a nightclub like you’d imagine. The club president wasn’t a slimy mafia boss in a porkpie hat at a dark corner booth. The president sat on an elevated chair like a baby in a booster seat. He was Coon, feisty little fucking peckerhead coxswain. I, president Coon, call this meeting of the Knarr Club to order. Do we have any new inductees? You? Have you retrieved the urinal cake? Ah, good. Under the powers vested in me I hereby command you to bite that fucker in half!

And the sucker would bite the cake. The tough guys would just pick the damn thing up barehanded straight out of the urinal, bring it to the table and make it happen. The weenies – I was going to say the smart guys, but is any of this shit smart? – grabbed it with a paper towel and washed it off first.

Either way, if the bite was not effective or pleasing to the eye of the little fucking peckerhead president, back the sucker would go to get another one. It was not unheard of to bite three cakes before the club membership was deemed acceptable.

Other than a bunch of rowdy underage crew guys who may well have kept the place in business, it was pretty quiet in the Knarr. The shuffleboard table kept us entertained while we waited for the pool table. And it was a rare thing to have a stranger step up and drop a quarter for the next game. And, other than shuffleboard, pool, beer, urinal cakes, and Marcia, we eventually ran out of reasons to say “Aaaarrrgh! To the Knarr!”

The Duchess actually carded people. Usually everyone. And it was just a step up, chili to stew. It was also more for serious drinking and carrying on with a select few members of the rest of the public. But the dive bar ambience remained. Doctor Frank had picked up the habit of chewing snoose and spitting in one cup while drinking beer from the other, which is awesome as long as you remember which is which. The owner of the bar actually walked by and told me to spit on the rug instead. “tobacco bits fuck up my dishwasher,” he said. So I gave him the glass and spit on the floor. It was easier for both of us.

The Duchess had an edge to it, an attitude that was lacking at the Knarr. If the Knarr was ‘ludes, the Duchess was speed. Even a big crew motherfucker didn’t want to mess with anyone there. We were lovers, not fighters, anyway. Take Tulla for instance. He comes out of the Duchess all pissed off and yelling about something, a guy takes exception and tells him to shut up, Tulla goes to fight him, the guy pops him two quick ones and it’s over in like two seconds. Kind of a bummer to be Tulla with that big bandage on his schnozz the next morning.

Now and then our lady friends would come looking for us at the bar. Now and then they’d find us with our arm around someone else. Now and then they wouldn’t find us at all, and they’d end up with someone else’s arm around them, or they’d make their way to the Connie looking for us. Doctor Frank recalls this one particular time, lying in his top rack in the boathouse, nearly asleep, when his roommate’s honey pounds on the door wondering why he wasn’t at the Knarr like he said he’d be. He gets up to open the door and nearly falls over from the beer stench.

Roomie’s girlfriend sways in the open doorway, arm around her wing woman. As Doctor Frank recalls, wingwoman’s name was Jill. She was a stubby little one with soft eyes, curly hair and big lips that were always wet. Chitchat ensues, another door opens in the hallway, and our neighbor who shall remain nameless steps into the hall. He spies Jill, having seen her before on another visit, tells her how beautiful she is and how much he needs her company. She smiles lustfully and pulls him into his room. Before the door closes, roomie’s girlfriend hollers after her to make it quick. They gotta get home, plus these stud athletic specimens have practice in the morning.

Not even ten minutes later, we hear our neighbor’s door open and shut. Jill walks in, licking her lips. “Mmmm, that was tasty. And quick,” she says. “Let’s go.”

Jill is wearing a beautiful blue silk top. Roomie’s girlfriend takes a closer look, still weaving, trying to focus. She points just below Jill’s chin, and slurs, “What’s that? Jill? Is that…”

Jill looks down. “Dammit! I thought I swallowed it all! How am I gonna get that stain out?”  Now she’s pissed. “This top cost a bunch of money!”

Girlfriend puts her arm around Jill, comforting her. “Honey, honey. Just tell the drycleaner you spilled pop on it. Or ice cream. Whatever, they’re miracle workers. And one more thing…

“If you’re going to do that, always take your top off first.”

Who knew? A lesson learned after a trip to the Knarr would go all the way to the Other Washington and the Oval Office, three thousand miles and twenty years later.